


Prompt 12 (Lennox 3)

by Yoselin



Series: L&L Tumblr Prompts [13]
Category: Love & Legends (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 17:29:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14194014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoselin/pseuds/Yoselin
Summary: Originally posted to Tumblr.Prompt: “Come cuddle.”





	Prompt 12 (Lennox 3)

Still continuing off the same plot line my other Lennox’s prompts have been in.  
——  
The candles in the room are burning low when I awake. The night sky is painting its vivid picture out the window and a light breeze is stirring through the room. Night is enveloping the castle like a mantle and all is silent-  
Except for the scratching of quill on paper.  
In my half asleep state, I frown and strain to listen to the sound around me. I can hear the distinct sounds of someone writing things down and quill being dipped into ink every few moments.  
Slowly, consciousness dawns on me. I roll slowly on the bed and peer at the direction of the noise.  
Just as I suspected, Lennox is busy at work. It can’t be more than two in the morning yet he is already devising the speech he will recite to his church in the morning. Every morning before mass, he writes out his sermon to the smallest detail and stays up all night.  
I sigh.  
Last night I had attempted to distract him. I had tried to wear him out so that he would get his rest, yet there he is decked out on his desk. Despite tiring himself out, his dedication to preaching remains strong.  
I sit up in bed and run a hand through my hair.  
“Are you really working right now?”  
My voice comes out groggy from sleep. It cuts through the night quiet and Lennox’s hand stills. He looks up from his speech, sees me awake, then dismisses me with a click of his tongue.  
“I have to finish this sermon,” he replies. He dips the quill in ink again and continues his scribbling.  
I glance out the window and see no traces of the sun in the horizon. It is truly, truly early. I’m not a morning person at all, and Lennox needs his rest.  
“You need sleep, Len,” I murmur. My chin goes to my hand and I force my eyes open.  
Lennox huffs at the nickname, sends me a piercing glare, and continues writing.  
I close my eyes, tell myself I’ll open them in a moment, then shake myself awake at the realization that I will sleep if I gamble that. It’s not fair for me to go to sleep while he continues to work. Lennox often stays up late to finish up his sermons or patrol around the castle when Magnus orders it. His sleep schedule is messed up enough as it is, and I don’t often help with it. In fact, I keep him up most nights and exhaust him.  
Stretching in my place, I decide to try a different approach. Slowly, I wrap a blanket tightly around me and wince at the movement. My entire body is sore from sleep and last night’s previous workout. Lennox hadn’t really been gentle.  
My feet pad on the floorboards and I manage to sneak up behind him. His back is hunched over the desk and his hand is moving at impossible speeds. Swirls and loops paint the paper in incredibly beautiful, if messy, calligraphy. I can’t read what he is writing, his handwriting is an enigma to everyone but himself, yet I know it will be striking.  
Lennox has an incredible way with words. He can twist and bend them to his will, turn them into a canvas to portray whatever he wishes, and force obedience. I’ve seen him in action, felt the power beneath his voice, and heard it in my ear often enough. He is incredibly adept-  
Yet I doubt he’ll be able to come up with something tonight mid-exhaustion.  
Already, he has crossed out several phrases and scribbled on top of paragraphs. He is too tired to come up with some of his lovely sonnets. I need to get him to bed.  
My hands wrap loosely around his torso and I place my chin on his shoulder. He jolts, glares at me from the corner of his eye, and pointedly ignores me.  
I bite my cheek. “When was the last time you slept?”  
My fingers go for the skin under his eyes. Even in the weak candlelight, I can see something dark beneath them. He is truly tired, yet he won’t let himself rest. Lennox hates leaving things up to fate, and he prefers to finish everything as soon as he can. It’s a stark contrast against my procrastinating nature.  
He bats my hand away with the quill, spills dots of ink on my skin, and scowls. “Enough. I’m working. Go back to bed.”  
It’s a command, an order, and one that often works. As his former slave, it’s often put me in my place and let me know that my presence is no longer wanted. Tonight, however, I pointedly ignore it.  
There’s an exhaustion to his voice, a deep tiredness that mirrors my own, and I want him to rest. Tomorrow he’ll have to deliver a long sermon for his congregation then will go on patrol right after. He won’t rest and I want some of the tension to leave his shoulders. Sleep is a reprieve I want him to have. I’m not budging in this.  
Rather than obey, I lean away from him and place my hands on his shoulders. My fingers move at the muscles there and I feel how tense they are. I’m not the best masseuse in the world, but I know the things Lennox’s body enjoys.  
His back is a mess of tension and knots. I can feel just how frustrated and exhausted he has been these past few days. Ever since he had that argument with Helena and almost got hexed, he’s been on edge.  
Lennox is easily one of the more troublesome Generals. His rage knows no bounds and he often loses his temper and acts rashly. I’ve felt the ire of it before, felt it when he shattered my leg a year ago, and have seen it play out in front of others. Despite my best attempts, it still peeks out and puts him in stressful positions. I have to be the one to soothe him afterwords. Like now.  
My fingers continue to work at his tired muscles and a sound leaves his lips. He tenses under my touch, presses his lips thin, and says nothing to scold me.  
Still, however, he continues to work. I press my own lips together in frustration.  
“You need your rest,” I murmur. My lips brush against his cheek and I close my eyes.  
He leans away from me, familiar glare marring his features, and clenches his jaw. “And you need to notice when you are being a nuisance.”  
His words are biting and harsh, yet I let them bounce off harmlessly. I’ve long since grown used to his cruel words. You can’t spend every waking moment with him without building up an immunity for it.  
I don’t move from my place behind him. Instead, my fingers move from his back to the hand holding the quill. It stills at my touch mid sentence.  
Lennox glances at me, waiting for me to make a move so he can find a reason to yell at me, yet I move closer. My hands trace swirls across his own and my lips brush against his neck.  
“You’re tired,” I mumble.  
It’s an observation not a question. I can tell he is tired from the way his back is tense and his eyes are blinking in the low light as if to stay awake. I’ve learned to read the little cues by now.  
“So are you,” Lennox answers back. He moves his hand away from my grip and moves to dip it in ink again. I move my palm and put it over the bottle just in time. The quill pricks at my skin and draws blood. I hardly notice.  
“Come to bed,” I plead. I move my lips up to his jaw and press a kiss there.  
He tenses, shudders at the contact, and drops the quill on his desk. His hands move to his nose and he pinches the bridge of it. Another silent cue that he is sleepy and stressed.  
I want to badly get rid of his burden. He works so often and so hard, I want him to relax. My face presses against the side of his neck and I breathe in his scent. He smells like some expensive cologne I can’t put my finger on and sweat. A unique combination that I’ve learned to associate with home.  
My fingers move down to his back again and I resume my movements. This time, there’s less resistance on his part. He closes his eyes and lets me work at his back. He enjoys my touch despite the front he puts on.  
I watch his face as I work. When anger is not twisting his features into something terrifying, he is actually incredibly handsome. There’s a charm to him that draws me in. The square of his jaw, the amber of his eyes, and the softness of the bangs that sometimes fall across his forehead conveys incredible good looks.  
I smile.  
Once, I hated him. Everything about him used to repulse me, make me afraid, disgust me, but now I am willing to die for him. Since he took me from my life before, I’ve seen the good in him. The world either knows him as a terrible servant to a villain or a powerful preacher akin to a god, but I see him for what he is.  
I see him as the human being that surrounds himself by thick walls of ice and simmers beneath his rage because his loneliness is too suffocating to delve into. The human being that desires companionship because he is as starved for human contact as anyone else. The human being that works himself to the point of exhaustion because he seeks to raise himself above the caste the world thrust him into.  
I see him and love him for what he is.  
My hands still and I wrap them around his shoulders in an embrace. My forehead presses to the side of his face and I brush my lips against the corner of his mouth. He makes a sound at the back of his throat, something akin to a sigh, and I smile.  
“ _ **Come cuddle**_ ,” I whisper.  
He huffs at me, sends me a glare as freezing as the cold air outside, but doesn’t shove me off. This is a good sign. Lennox pushes me away when I’ve tired him out, but he lets me stay when my persuasion is working.  
Perhaps tonight I’ll be fortunate.  
“You are a child,” he complains. He closes his eyes and pretends to be off put by the suggestion. Still, his hands remain on mine and he almost presses closer.  
He is starved for human contact. I know this well. I feel it in the way he shudders when I touch him, taste it in the way his kiss delves into something desperate and possessive, and hear it in the way he groans when driven to the edge. He wants companionship as much as anyone else, and I am intent on providing it for him.  
“Come,” I reply. My hands move to his and I tug on them lightly.  
I expect him to shove me off, hurl another insult at my clinginess and blah, blah, blah, but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps quiet and almost leans in. I realize he is more tired than I realized.  
Another light tug on his hands. “Come on, please?”  
Silence. Lennox glances at me, meets my gaze with annoyance and some other emotion I can’t place, then sighs. “You are annoying.”  
He frees his hands from my grip yet stands all the same. I resist the urge to let out a triumphant laugh. His fingers press to his eyes and he moves to the bed.  
I follow after him, adjust the blanket around me, and join him under the covers. He slips out of his shirt, tosses it somewhere, and buries himself in the sheets. I edge closer to him so that I am tucked into his side. When he feels me close, his hands go for my waist and he wraps a possessive arm around me.  
I lean my body into his touch. His fingers move to my neck and they brush at the skin. There is a mess of scars on the skin there. Since my time with him, he has left a path of knife cuts and teeth marks in that area. Sometimes the flesh there aches and I find it hard to breathe, yet his touch feels pleasant all the same.  
I’ve grown to accept the pain he inflicts on me, grown to accept the way he takes out his anger on me, and grown to accept the way he threatens to get rid of me when I disobey.  
Occasionally, I’ll get little flashes of something. Occasionally, I’ll get nightmares of a man with mismatched eyes and a lovely smile who promises to love me forever and save me. Occasionally, I’ll get an overwhelming urge that something is wrong and I need to get as far away from Lennox as possible. Occasionally I’ll have episodes where I can’t breathe and Lennox’s touch is like poison to me, but then Lennox is there to bring me back. He whispers words into my ear, commands me to return to him and forget whatever treachery is swirling around my mind, and graces me with his touch that draws me back to reality.  
I’ve learned to love him and desire him. I’ve learned it until it comes second nature to me. Almost like breathing and blinking.  
I turn so that I face him and he flutters his eyes close. His hands move lower on my waist and he draws me closer. I’m pressed against his chest where his heartbeat pulses underneath my touch.  
I close my own eyes, delight in the fact that him touching me in a way that isn’t sexual or painful is a rare treat, and pay close attention to the thumping of his pulse.  
The room goes quiet then and only the sounds of the breeze from outside grace us. Soon, I hear the silent breath leaving his lips and feel the soft rise and fall of his chest in slumber.  
I smile softly, pleased that he is finally resting after so long, and brush my lips above his heart before closing my own eyes.  
As I drift off into sleep, I feel that familiar prickle in me. It is a sense that something is wrong, that I should run from Lennox and flee towards a man with different colored eyes that once meant the world to me and more, yet I shove this down.  
Sleeping here, in Lennox’s arms, is now my purpose. I’ve grown to love him, forced it upon myself, and have seen the good in him. I will not listen to that little nagging voice.  
I know my place in life and it is at Lennox’s side.


End file.
